Lost Friends, Found Friends, Re-Found Friends

The Grove.

Between the two valleys,

There's a quiet still grove,

A hidden green place,

Where she likes to go.

To escape from the grim,

And shut out the grey.

To sit, or to stand,

To take stock of a day.

I came into this place,

As I wandered, in error,

Thinking of little,

I walked into the terror.

The scars on the grove,

I saw were her pains,

Left where she'd poured them,

Discoloured dank stains.

She watched me from without,

Speaking no words.

Her silent thoughts echoed,

By paradisian birds.

I flew from my tree,

I now know without seeing,

What I needed to do,

To effect her freeing.

Back in one valley,

I felt her return,

Neither could speak of

What I had learned.

A gilded cage, perch, trap,

An imprisoned bird.

I sit here quite cat-like,

Perhaps I should purr.

Predatorial manners tell me,

Its time to stop playing.

But the caged one can't seem to,

Understand what I'm saying.

Days later, I'm thinking,

Of the grove in the wood.

I'm considering what I've done,

And the things that I should.

"What you saw was not you,

Nor aught you have done."

"I couldn't quite share all,

Not with you, nor with none."

Her words fell on deaf ears,

As they've oftimes before,

Convinced me I can't hope

To settle the score.

Between these two valleys

An empty quiet grove,

Hidden from eyes that pry,

Where she used to go.

No, I'm still not letting the blog get "personal" so won't flesh out the post's title in any revealing way, it just seems apt given the last few weeks. These have been, and continue to be a bit "dark times" but randomly some glints of sunshine do manage to break through the clouds, so there are things to think about beyond work.......and surviving.

As I alluded to in the last post, I am more or less down to the very barrel-scraped-dregs of my juvenile ramblings, so present them as they are. There just randomly might be an odd oldie in the future, but if so, it'll be out of the "questionable" folder.......!

Let's kick off with whatever presents itself......

  My "Home village" Upperthong. With Black Hill in the background....

Just for balance...."Netherthong"

We're good at place names in this neck of the woods.....

The Holme Valley, from Thurstonland, with Holmfirth High in the foreground.

The Ant.

The picture of the ant

By the burning lake

Burning mass of consequence

Flames of a second life of torment

Lick at the legs

And the eyes

And the ant licks back

Spitting first at your hands

And defending soul's right to all

Deafening unsound from fire's edge.

Spit out the insane poison

Into my ant's eyes and legs

And we may watch the souls

Burning for a billion years.

Green aura need not be envious

But white may never come to us

Think "white" to heal your soul

Think of it, to make you whole.

The ant faces consequential flames,

Brave and stupid.

Time for second thinking

While the flames are stoked up

While the coal's raked over

While the cruel smile of the overlord

Blanks out thoughts of accepted justice.

But this picture is on a page dog-eared

Soon turned, soon burned

Soon forgotten in the fires of it all.

 There are beagles in the picture above, just in case you can't see them.....

Star Child.

Silly child,

Come dance the ages,

Hawthorn wild,

Infinite stages.

Strange child,

Come dance in bars,

A kill-me smile,

Thoughts of stars.

Simple

We are simple, as an atom to a molecule,

Or a molecule to an entity,

To the real beings of this point in the whole,

We their vessels, their transport, their succour,

Their medium, their water, air, earth,

Ultimately, fire and death,

Ours, not theirs.

Where now the original thought,

Original rebellion is original sin,

Dilute the whole by mass,

And detach, unitary not complex,

Cut-off and close the door,

Not easily achievable to the simple, idea conduit.

Silas The Beast.

Silas, a man, a spirit of cold grey,

Stands with the van, at the brink of the day.

Enters the town, where nature gave him birth,

Unnatural clown, who knows what its worth ?

Silas is still, and Silas is calm,

The panicking viceroys raise the alarm.

But Silas says naught, and glances around,

He's nothing to fear from this miserable town.

His forces are gathered, but there's noone to fight,

Now is the time to establish his right.

Silas, the beast,

Plays the awkward game,

Chess with men's souls,

Gambling names.

Unravelling minds,

like bits of old twine,

Hoping to find,

Some kind of sign.

Silas stands up,

Smiles to himself,

Picks up the cup,

Drinks his own health.

Silas grins at the sight,

And turns off the light,

He has no need of it

During the day.

His people await,

The conqueror's fate,

Though maybe no blood shed,

They'll still have to pay.

A purple emperor, dancing the breeze,

Catches that vanishing eye.

Silas now knows

He's lost all that he sees,

Is gone with the emperor's sigh.

1000 Miles.

One thousand miles, down,

Darkness,

The jaw-ache of rushing air.

Intense cold, muscles cramping.

No visual impression, occasional mists,

Skin pushed tight onto bones.

Faster than possible, falling,

Spinning, air rushing,

No, it doesn't take long to finish a thousand miles.

Screaming, intense cold, darkness,

Your stomach several hundred feet behind you,

Tumbling out of control, rushing jaw,

Intense mists, tight faster air, rushing intense,

Occasional miles, skin down, spinning, finish,

Possible falling, intense skin, one thousand bones,

Cramping screams, intense falling, rushing,

Falling visual mists, spinning skin faster....

Is the fall killing me, or am I ?

 

A Camping Scene.

Never known how to be

A tent peg for your love,

Could not have guessed,

Could not see,

The blade, hanging just above.

Holding up the awning,

In the dawning of relief,

Sees me sometimes yawning

In shadows of disbelief.

The guy-rope of the marquee,

Where love has gone to drink,

Tension has now got to me,

And made me stop, and think.

Fine weather means no cover,

No shelter from no storm.

So this 'camp' accessory, your lover,

Leaves the campsite, on your lawn.

Pagan.

The pagan and the Anglican,

Stand there talking man-to-man,

Face-to-face, well its a start,

For who can tell them apart ?

Bishops' Wood.

Perverse pornographic imagery,

You are so funny, so near to me,

So undressed for the shot,

So unimpressed by what you've got.

You wear my old waxed coat,

The picture, maybe three years old,

Turns me on, rutty as a goat,

But that day was wet, not cold.

We lived like we knew it all,

And left like we'd just come in,

The dark greenery forest hall,

Where we laughed away the sin.

Then the ground opened to a crack,

Some geological quirk of mother nature,

I loved you, and only saw your back,

But loved you, so could not hate you.

I hate you, and I hate 'us', I think,

So much wasted time between our lives,

Too great a waste, gives off a stink,

Like abandoned rotting meadow hives.

But I am a near a junction in my life,

Where things clear and choices are made,

A point where I could ask you to be my wife,

Or at least where we both are saved.

That could be a chance for you to say,

"Not right, no the time is wrong for me,"

I should get used to this game you play,

Should know I won't go down on my knees.

But we dance from a distance,

We both need what we both can give,

The thing is neither will give a chance,

And so "mythical" our love must live.

 

A Spot Of Sea Air.

Left alone, but not unloved,

At least that's what I tell myself,

Like the seaside town,

Visited once a year by the people.

"We always come here, we do like it so."

"We like a spot of sea air."

Do people say that about me ?

I doubt it.

Hard Bargaining.

It is not a foregone conclusion,

Not a predetermined thing,

Not planned out by the hand of fate,

Too late, too soon,

Too much, to expect.

Not a frank admission of God

Cumulus sits on weathered frown,

Brow to heathered thought stream,

Not the soft imagined solstice,

Simple and delightful in time.

Stretched out your belief once,

Twice and sits comfortably,

But not in this ridiculous song.

Never should you shoot at fish,

Nor clouds nor stars nor suns,

Test leads reactions to new surrounds

Test mine to heavy guns.

Seeking late Elysial entry, to deny.

(Is this denied ?)

Forever to exclude

To sink ethereal, forget my cloud

Never to predict

Not to forget

Never to submit

Predetermine my demise, admitting mistakes.

All.

A Sense Of Drowning.

Cut lashes with razor kiss tongue,

Lick my eyes and sockets,

Sting my lips with shocking lust

And strip my mind of reason.

Then dance-bizarro on my body,

Insano profano and pure depth,

Creasing heat and intent of chase,

Then release us into cold mind flight.

Suck at my heart from without and within,

And remove all doubt.

Shout your name out !

But to scream out "I am here, this place called X"

Is not the done thing, baby.

Not the thing for us to do.

So lay your leather love on my broken skin,

And bleed your love on my chest and face.

Clench deep screaming long lusty ballads of sense,

On my soul and wet singing in stormy love.

Be my insane mistress of broken scenes,

Trade your name to visit my dreams,

And let my mirror reflect your actions,

My body-mimicry cries out diversions.

Now lick these stupid wounds clean,

With words of false conciliates,

And holding hands re-enter my dream,

Drown in these loviturates.

It's October, it's been a funny year so far. At least I still occasionally manage to get out on the hills to watch hounds working. Controversial? Not to me. Though the times we're living through are, and the lies, hatred and bile that seem to be taken as truth, by so many people, it's very hard to see how the old world will survive, which to me is a very deep sadness.

Without legislation, it was slowing suffocating, through the lack of interest of the younger generations, and these changing times. Not that there aren't any, just not enough to keep the tradition going.

14 years after the ban became Law, so much has changed, and so many good friends have passed, hunting friends, social friends, casual, and close friends. I feel a touch of not just Autumn, but maybe the whiff of Winter not far away, and I am thankful for good, and bad days out with hounds. Good people, good crack, good company, and beautiful country.

A wise man once said that the particular view in front of him was so exquisite, the only way of improving it, was to run a pack of hounds across it, and I utterly agree. I apply it wherever I happen to be.........

10 years after I left kennels, none of the hounds here are now the ones I bred, though just maybe an odd blood-line survives, I do hope so.

The end of a good day, even if I only caught the last couple of hours.......

Feels a bit like my life story in an allegorical sense these days.

Still, I do love where I live, and the life I've had wasn't all bad, not by a very long way.

Here's to many more "good days".



On the poetry front, I now have realised that yes, this was the last post of the text/document pieces, I still have acres of old scanned hand-written stuff, that never got typed up to sift through.....

Bugger, and stuff that was typed up, on my old typewriter, but with several pieces on a page, that need splitting, and saving as individual ones....

I wish I'd indexed this blog as I went along, as I really don't want to repeat post, without good reason...

Anyway, that's for me to think about. It's time to start actually producing and trying with the stuff in my current note-books.......

Now that the nights really are drawing in.......

Thursday's Child

 

Metal

Everything's made of metal,

Except wood, and that's metal too,

And me, my heart, my mind,

And you.

Chocolate metal sculptures in the love letters,

Sent abroad,

And metal scented perfume, in a room long ignored.

Metal food for metal patients,

Metal plates, and tables,

Metal trees and grass and birds,

Sharp edged meanings to your double words,

In metal conversations, clean, precisely oiled,

And metal emotion feeling thoughts.

Kept neat, in rows long spoiled.

Spring joints, steel backed, and wrought,

In iron skilled delivery.

From metal mouth to my metal ears.

As the flecks of friendly corrosion creep,

To eat at all our edges,

And me, my heart, my mind,

And nothing really rusts in here.

Yet, this sculpture ages, blind,

And rusts, crunching through to meaning.

Mild Winter.

It's been another strange mild winter

No real hints of global anything,

No spirit of predictable snowfalling mulled wines,

But a dalliance with the Eroticon,

A deviance from the usual stuff,

Street dance at the one midnight that counts,

And a painful life pattern inflicted on your ma,

Why not, when you're young and free ?

Why not winter with a warm idea,

A body of someone else's dreams ?

A pictorial expression that laughs still,

And bleeds, and cries, and dreams,

And hurts, and worries, and sings, and...

Another strange winter has come and is here,

A period of your journey, for change.

Not fundamental map-reading behaviour,

But a dalliance with the sensual,

Continued street dance indoors.

No real hints of global anything.

No, you're all quite right, as usual,

It's been another strange, mild winter.

 

Million-Eyes.


Those million crystal-eyes
Aflame, aflame.

I wallow in your deepness,
A whale-calf to your warmth,
Unbelievable completeness,
I am swimming in your love.

Now the evening slumbers with a grey cool,
Slipping away as the night trundles in.
Just for your delight, I play the kings-fool,
Maybe tell a joke, dance and sing.

But those deep million eyes,
Burn on and on.

I am blinded again, and stumble into your arms,
Into arms that enfold my trembling.
Steadying my hopeless questing,
A mirrored glimpse of loves now gone.

You all have those eyes,
Part of the whole,
a piece of the one,
Why do you all have those eyes ?

This drowning is so believable,
I close my eyes, now useless,
And cling to the lifeline thus thrown,
Forget myself, just be us.

If I tried hard I could concentrate,
But those mesmer eyes,
Those eyes, those eyes, aflame,
Those million crystals in space,

I am swimming in this love,
Why do you all have to have,
Those same eyes ?

Blackthorn Blossom

 

Moments

Have to admit,

To a lot of things,

Hate to, some of them.

But, adding tap-water,

To your cognac,

Was one of those moments where hindsight,

Would get the upper hand,

Cloudy, fizzy, with head.

Hate to admit,

Have to "get" a lot of things,

Have to, well, some of them...

Moral.

Down the streets runs a man,

He's very hot and tired,

In his hand there is a gun,

A gun he nearly fired,

In the bank there was a man,

With guts enough to press the bell,

Instead of shooting the thief just ran.

Ran ? He ran like hell.

"I'll not do that again" he thinks,

As he dodges down an alley,

"That man was brave, and I.."

"I just feel a wally."

"That's far enough my son"

A voice came from behind,

He span round to the silhouette,

The sun it made him blind,

He began to raise his hands,

When a copper he recognised,

Pulled the trigger of his gun,

Bullet between the eyes.

"But sarge, he was giving up..."

"Son, that may well be true"

"But if he took a shot at us,

Who would it hit ? Me, not you."

And so let's leave them to clear up,

For another day.

And the moral of this little tale ?

"Crime, it doesn't pay...!"

 

More.

You drew my attention

Like an artist.

Then, shook my hand

Better than booze.

I tried to read your thoughts,

Surely a misprint.

The passing comment,

Got passed on.

Like there's no tomorrow,

There was no tomorrow.

I thought I saw what you were getting at,

And got at it first.

The hollow words

Echoed.

I presented the facts as they are,

You said "Thank you for the present."

I tried to build on our love,

But the mortar was poor.

You caught my mood,

And threw it back.

"It was all so run of the mill,"

You said, at a sprint.

I suppose I got a clearer picture,

Than the messy impressionist.

"Its all in the future tense,

So just relax."

I looked your way,

But it hurt my eyes.

 

Rose Dawn.

As this rose dawn picks out misty dreams,

Where times are trapped, and dipped in streams,

Again we stride through new verdant lanes,

Remembering things to come, like old steam trains.

Enfolding and enshrouding me with your withered loves,

Choking off mistaken ventures in forgotten groves,

Brings new birth to old ideas of fish and loaves,

And paddling clear seas in these ancient coves.

Bestir the intentions we had when looking deep,

Before grips and ties were severed in hazy sleep,

Brings clarity of memory, you begin to make the leap,

To step towards the edge, not recoil like sheep.

Sun streams swords cut swathes through skies,

Revealing where your lost pig now flies,

Dives, stops, whips back and serenely tries,

To see the golden truth in these leaden years.

Spring.....

Some right dodgy folk in the local woods..... David Mayne
               more David......

Faceache page........

Unassuming and genuinely nice bloke. Love what I've seen of his work, and as a person.....

Holme Moss mast, must be so over-photographed by visitors and locals alike.........!

The "Monkey Nick" or Ramsden Clough as it's officially known.....

Something to do with an Oran-Utan that escaped from a visiting circus many many moons ago, and surviving in the wild for a good spell before being found and, well, who knows whether it was recaptured or whatever....? Can't find a definitive version of the story, so it could just be apocryphal.....but I like to think it has some ring of truth......
 

Not enough to make a murder....

The Funniest....

The funniest, huh, thing is that my love for you

has only increased

While my hatred of me matches, pace for pace,

Crazy, isn't it ?

When all I tried to do, was the Right Thing.

You thanked me for amongst

Other things that some might be true

But flattery and love and things

For being what you see as (tender)/cruel

I am, but when you feel the cold wet

Dry stone wall and grass upon your back

And can't hear for the choral wind

Not feel the hail upon your breast

Nor feel rain nor snow nor aught but

The boiling of blood within lilied acres

Narrow and taut, sculpted divine

And fine and electrical, with need

And the bending of joints, the slapping of skin

The aching of exposed senses and hard ground

And stones and earth and the pounding

The pounding of pelvic bones, making music, making history.

 

Utterly Free Again.

Woman with clear vision,

Glass window to a honeyed tongue,

And scent of curtain smoky moments,

With bloodied sheets and bruised lips,

And a tug of lust is gone,

To the bed in the sky.

Oh you passionate bitch

How I hated you,

Loved us, but not you.

Now we are both utterly free again,

Neither tied to each other by string,

Or rope or hope or belonging,

As we race while drifting,

Away and towards it,

Sailing to a forgotten kiss

On a leaf of thyme or sex,

With poor turning to moderate later.

Then the new adventure brings old memory,

As telephone numbers are treated like gold,

And I still think of your wine,

Your parasite, or was it symbiote nature ?

And how relaxed it all seemed so tense,

And how we buzzed round to nothing,

With jaspers of desperate need,

And locks of your hair,

But I still try harder to forget.

 

The Hounds.


The hounds of hell,
Know me by name,
A soul to sell ?
A rule-less game ?

A backward clock-face,
Tells me you're here,
Dressed in lace,
A groundless fear.

Come be my little devil,
Mischief in your mind,
We're on the level,
New means to unwind.

The hounds of hell,
Are running free,
A vicious smell,
Bitchy tree.

I know this pack,
Like I know you,
Tearful comeback,
With eyes-blue.

 

Storm.

A traveling band of thinkers,

Rest outside the inn.

Among them are two tinkers

Who list you as their kin.

Long lost cousins, or some such,

I don't know, they didn't say.

I wouldn't dare to ask so much,

But please cast your glance their way.

A story of forgotten lands,

Bold words of deeds they've done,

Of fiercesome journeys on burning sands,

And of mysteries lost and won.

Be witness to battles they've seen,

Or to soothsayers who told them all,

Great divinations in clouds of steam,

In some haunted, shady hall.

The first one tells of wisdom deep,

Discovered in a southern place,

Of how dream journeys in your sleep,

Leave their tracks across your face.

The second is a quiet man,

With eyes that can cut steel,

He said they'll help us if they can,

To re-invent the wheel.

Bewilderment opens in your words,

You're not sure of what to say,

Glancing skywards, at the birds,

"We don't have to leave today."

But we leave the travellers for a while,

To digest the things they've said.

I think I can remember how you smile,

But now you careful-tread.

Within the rest-house we sit and talk,

The travelers wait without,

Should we join them in their walk ?

Your mind is full of doubt.

I now know I must leave you,

To follow your own fate,

I think the tinkers will go too,

We've made them over-wait.

But as I reach the hill-top,

I turn round and look back,

Above the idyllic village top,

A heavy storm is hanging black.

A portent of a darkly time,

When great tasks are performed,

This heavy pressured heated clime,

Is it more than just a storm ?

Below the tumult cloud, the little inn,

Where some travelers are banded round,

Perhaps the start of an erratum thing,

Their eyes are on the ground.

I try not to watch as you step out,

But can't help to see you go.

Above the wind I cannot shout,

"At least your feelings show !"

The travelers exit, to stage right,

You step left and walk alone.

My bitter knowledge at the sight,

(A thing to which I'm prone.)

This day was long and strange,

Meeting new chances, face-to-face,

Now northwards with haste I range,

Back up to my old home base.

We may come across those traveling-men,

Unexpectedly, as if by fate,

And I'd bet they'd remember when,

You advised them not to wait.

The tinkers knew you'd not be swayed,

And waited just the same,

But experience and the plans they laid

Still drew you in their game.

Roughly 10 years ago someone who traded on eBay as Alia-something-something "stole" loads of my Dad's publicly available photos, and farmed them out to her team of "artists" who re-painted them as "originals"....... yes, that really is me, circa 93/4 at Christmas time walking hounds to the meet.....

Sadly, or not, I actually quite like it.......






The actual picture......



Anyway, got a few more off-loaded, so there's that........

Feel free to share, engage and comment, I do get to moderate the comments, so don't waste your time with spam, or abuse. So far, after over ten year of this nonsense, the spam has been limited, and the abuse negligible......but so have the shares and comments......!

But, I've gone up from 4, 5, 6 visitors to a minimum of 50.....so somebody gets it!

Happy April!